


The Curious  Case of Jack Harkness

by alba17



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes becomes obsessed with a mysterious stranger at a boxing match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious  Case of Jack Harkness

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to madder_rose for the beta. Written for neifile7's prompt: "Harkness meets Holmes and Watson."

It’s the usual scene, the air dank and thick with the noise and smell of too many men shoved together in a small space, looking for blood and a bit of a bet. He lingers at the edges, adjusting to the heady mix of sweat, ale and high emotion. The light is dim, mottled brown, shapes coming slowly into focus as arms, legs, backs bending and torsos twisting, mouths wide with jeers and calls. The pale slip of a hand, a shiny slick of forehead, a flash of grimy teeth before lips close on a bottle – all just glimpses of light amidst the dark.

Holmes gets the lay of the land quickly as usual, taking a brief mental tally of the place’s familiars. Those he knows are easily dispensed with, the strangers taking but a moment longer to categorize and sort. He’s thirsty, but he ignores the liquor until later. For now he wants a clear head.

He feels an odd mix of release and excitement, the sharp edges of his mind clamping onto this new challenge like a predator capturing its prey, welcoming the distraction from his usual occupations. It’s liberating.

One bout ends with a burst of cheering and two more antagonists emerge from the crowd. Someone new - there’s a murmur of excitement. Holmes eyes the man; tall and muscular, but not overly so;  
handsome, with blue eyes and a sweep of dark brown hair over his brow. His eyes scan the crowd, take in his opponent; Holmes recognizes that look. There’s a mind working there, wary and calculating.

Shirt white and plain, yet the style of the collar is from a few years ago, the full sideburns a couple of years out of fashion – Holmes guesses he’s not from London, probably a provincial city. There’s dirt on his boots, the colour indicating somewhere to the west. He’s arrived recently, perhaps even right off the coach.

As the fighters start to circle each other, the uneven list to the stranger’s movements indicates he’s been drinking. He smirks at the other boxer, eyes flashing with something Holmes can’t identify. The other man goes in for a blow, which the stranger successfully avoids, muttering something about how the other fellow could do better than that. His accent – American? Very unusual. This man was intriguing.

The stranger starts to move more quickly, getting into it now, dancing on his feet. When he lands a punch, to the loud approval of the crowd, Holmes notices the brown leather band on his wrist. He moves in closer, wriggling his way through the press of bodies to get a better look.

The fight is warming up now. They’re trading blows and the men watching are eating it up. With the faster action, Holmes can’t see that strap. It’s frustrating – he needs to figure out what it is. He’s never seen anything like it.

The stranger gets in a good one to the other’s jaw and he turns for a moment to the crowd, laughing, exposing a impressive set of strong, white teeth. In the moment of pause, Holmes examines the wristband as well as he can from this distance. It appears to be leather, but of an unfamiliar calibre and sheen. Maybe it’s from America – the West perhaps. Even more intriguing, there’s some sort of mechanical device attached to it, bigger than a watch - with a cover.

Holmes quivers with curiosity.

The two combatants are back in the thick of it again, the other one slugging the stranger in the kidneys as he looks to the crowd. He doubles over with the shock of the blow, a surprised look on his face, but immediately recovers, shooting back up into a defensive stance with his arms bent, fists in front of his face. Probably an experienced fighter put off his game by drink, Holmes thinks.

They battle closely for a few minutes, neither getting the advantage, as the sound of the crowd builds with frustration. They want an end, the bloodier and more spectacular, the better.

Finally, they part, circling again and now the stranger looks serious. As the fighters revolve in their pas de deux, Holmes wedges himself up in the front of the crowd for a better view. The stranger hesitates, lowers his guard. In that brief moment he scans the crowd and catches Holmes’ eye. The detective is startled by what he sees there: not blood lust, not the predator’s gleam, but something more enigmatic - sadness or resignation.

The fight seems to happen in slow motion after that. If Holmes isn’t mistaken, and he rarely is, the stranger is throwing the fight. He looks vulnerable, not just in his stance, but in the widening of his eyes, the slackness of his mouth. He’s inviting a pummelling.

Holmes watches with fascination as the stranger’s opponent seizes his opportunity, bringing his arm back for a good, hard punch to the gut, then pressing in close as the stranger folds in pain, walloping him with a series of blows until he’s slumped against the barrier with blood on the side of his face, his lips split, holding his arms close to his chest.

The crowd roars at the sight. The stranger just takes it, sinking lower and lower under the onslaught, and Holmes finds himself absorbed in the spectacle of humiliation. Eventually the man crumples to the ground as his antagonist’s fists fall to his sides, eyes gleaming and chest heaving. He looks stunned at his sudden victory.

As the stranger crawls to the side, Holmes feels compelled to help him out, giving him a hand to lift him up. Even though he’s a complete unknown, there’s something about him, something inexplicable, like puzzle pieces that fit together but don’t make a complete picture. Holmes wants to know why; he needs to see the whole picture.

“My good man, let me take you to a doctor,” he says as they make their way to the bar, the man’s steps dragging. “You need to be looked at.”

“S’alright.” The man spits and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, dabbing his lip with his sleeve. “I’m fine,” he says dourly. “Iron constitution. Knock me down as many times as you want, I’ll always get back up.” He’s slurring a bit, which confirms Holmes’ suspicion that he’s drunk, although a few blows to the head probably hadn’t helped matters.

Holmes notices the trickle of blood on his left temple and hands him a bottle. “All the same, you took some good whacks to the head. I’d like my friend Dr. Watson to check you out. Wouldn’t want you stumbling into the night and getting into the wrong hands.”

The man barks out a laugh. “Who’s to say _you’re_ not the wrong hands?” He waggles his eyebrows and sways for a moment before Holmes steadies him with a hand on his arm. The man looks down at it. ”What kind of ‘checking out’ did you have in mind?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re implying, Mr...?”

“Harkness. Jack Harkness, at your service,” the man says, taking a wobbly bow.

“Mr. Harkness, I assure you Dr. Watson is of the utmost respectability and a fine physician,” Holmes says, raising his chin. “Veteran and all that.”

“Hmmm,” Harkness hums before taking a long pull from his bottle, wincing as the liquor hits his lip and looking out on the crowd. A couple of his knuckles are split from the fight, seeping blood. His eyes turn back to Holmes; there’s that assessing look again. He seems to have regained some of his composure.

Now that he’s close to the man, Holmes can see the dark smudges under his bloodshot eyes, the grim set to his jaw. As if drawn by fire, his gaze lands on the leather wriststrap. Judging by the worn edges, the way it digs into the skin, the slight difference of skin tone under the edge of the strap, Harkness rarely takes it off – he’s worn it a long time.

Frustrated by his inability to categorize this small accessory, Holmes takes a fresh look at Harkness, perusing his clothing, his body, everything about his appearance. No, there’s nothing here that evades his analysis like the wriststrap. He sighs.

He’s not quite sure what he’s doing, but the words tumble out, intuition taking over. He leans in closer. “Dr. Watson is never less than upright. However, I forge my own path without regard to the usual standards, as you can see from my presence here.” He leaves it at that, letting the words sink in.

Harkness lifts an eyebrow and settles more of his weight on the bar behind him, letting his arm brush against Holmes’. “Well, then, we have that in common. Perhaps I really ought to let your friend have a look at me.”

Holmes feels a flush of pleasure. He’s got his hooks into the man; he’ll soon have him completely sorted and the matter of who and what he is will be resolved. “We’ll finish our drink and then make our way. First time here?” he says, for once restraining the need to bedazzle with his brilliant deductions. Obviously he’s from Cardiff – the Welsh influence is apparent even through that unpleasant American accent - and he doesn’t spend his days at a desk; he’s too fit for that. On the other hand, he’s not a man who works with his hands – they’re smooth and uncallused.

Harkness looks him in the eye with narrowed lids. “Yes.”

Holmes lifts his own bottle and takes a drink.

“Looking for someone,” Harkness says in his flat vowels.

“Ah.”

“A doctor, as a matter of fact. But I doubt you’d know him.”

“My friend might.”

Harkness snorts. “Unlikely. He’s not a medical man.” He looks at Holmes again. “Although all sorts of unexpected people know him, so perhaps.” He sways and leans against the bar.

“Come along then. You need to be looked at. I assume you’ve no one in London.” He puts a hand on Harkness’ arm, glancing again at the intriguing wriststrap. He notices too that his lip already appears healed - how utterly bizarre. He could have sworn it was split. His gaze lingers on the man’s mouth and he wonders.

Harkness looks at him and smirks. “Nothing gets past you, eh?”

 

The cold air outside is bracing after the close atmosphere of the club. The night closes in dark and oppressive as they make their way down a narrow alleyway, coughing, snuffling and the occasional moan betraying the presence of the less fortunate members of the populace tucked away in hidden recesses, huddling for warmth. But Holmes guides his new acquaintance with confidence, being as familiar with the lower depths of the city as he is with the most posh private club. Nonetheless, he’s grateful to be in his fighting garb and not his more respectable daytime costume, which would certainly attract more attention in these environs.

As he takes Harkness’ arm to keep him close, a curious thing happens. The alleyway reeks of garbage and human waste overlaid by London’s ever-present smoke. But as Harkness leans into him, it all falls away. Instead, his nose is filled with the most delightful scent, full of the brightness and sparkle of a spring morning, the barest suggestion of cinnamon, and something else indefinable and more earthy that immediately makes him want to pull the man even closer.

Startled, Holmes stops short. Harkness is almost clinging to him now, having stumbled over a cobblestone, obviously the worse for wear after the boxing match and whatever else he got up to earlier. Being larger in stature, the man is heavily draped over him, and Holmes’ face is in fact almost buried in his neck. As if compelled by some outer force, he finds himself pressing his nose into the taut skin just below the man’s ear and breathing in deeply, just to get more of that delicious smell.

It isn’t perfume or cologne. He’s sure of it. Having made a study of such things for a case once, he’s able to detect the derivation of the various components of man-made scents. This smell has none of them. It comes from Harkness himself – but how?

Harkness’ fingers brush the bare skin at the nape of his neck and Holmes sucks in a breath, moving his head away a fraction. He clears his throat, moving them down the alleyway again, trying to ignore the strident thumping of his heart. His words of invitation in the club had been somewhat of a ruse, but now his mind is full of images - keeping the man close, peeling off his clothes, his mouth and hands on his bare skin, nostrils filled with that delightful scent...

Good lord, what was the man doing to him? “Buck up, Harkness, not too far now. Dr. Watson will have you good as new in no time.” Perhaps his dear friend, with his medical expertise, will be able to shed some light on this strange phenomenon. He wondered whether Harkness would have the same effect on him.

 

Holmes stumbles into the flat with Harkness in tow. “What’s this now?” Watson says, his paper falling to the floor as he rises from the chair to greet them.

“Nothing serious, but he needs some medical attention. Took a bit of a bruising at the, er, club. Possible concussion.” As they make their way to Watson’s examining room, Holmes notices Watson peering at the newcomer with suspicion. Although his friend might be ruffled now, Holmes hopes he’ll eventually find their guest as captivating as he does.

“Jack Harkness,” he introduces himself, holding out a hand to Watson. “Really, I’m fine. Your friend here is overreacting.” He looks around with blatant curiosity, noticeably more alert than he previously appeared. Perhaps the brisk air sobered him up, Holmes surmises. Looking at him in the light, he could see no sign of a split lip; it was completely healed. What sort of man was this?

“Doctor Watson.” He shakes the proffered hand. “I’ll be the judge of that. My office is just down here.”

Watson pulls Holmes a few paces ahead. “And why, pray tell, did you feel it necessary to take him under your wing and bring him here of all places?” Watson mutters under his breath, exchanging a look with Holmes. A silent conversation ensues, a battle of wills that Holmes has no intention of losing and in fact, based on prior experience, has every confidence he will win. He feels a small flutter of satisfaction as Watson finally looks away with a sigh, pulling out the heavy brass key to his examining room. Holmes’ mouth twitches upward on one side, but otherwise he shows no reaction. He can easily smooth away Watson’s glower later when they’re alone.

“Who the devil is he?” Watson whispers, glancing back at Harkness, who’s taking in his surroundings with a surprising degree of concentration given his state.

“I have no idea. But he’s visiting from Cardiff, says he’s looking for someone,” Holmes whispers back. “I found him...intriguing.”

Watson harrumphs, then ushers Harkness into the examining room. “You’re American?”

“Something like that.” Harkness looks him in the eye.

Holmes hovers rather uselessly, picking up random objects and putting them down again. He’s getting the impression that Harkness is much smarter than he appears at first glance. Perhaps he even cultivates a deceptively simple demeanour.

Watson holds Harkness’ gaze for a moment before pulling out some instruments. “I see.” He examines the injury to Harkness’ head, then moves on to his face. Leaning in, he pauses for a moment, eyelids fluttering downward before cutting a quick glance to Holmes, then back to his subject.

He’s caught Harkness’ curious scent, Holmes has no doubt.

Watson continues to perform various tests, checking Harkness’ eyes, nose and ears, his pulse. At one point he has Harkness hold out his arms. “What’s this?” He lays his fingers gently on the wriststrap for a brief second. “It’s...unusual.”

“Just a watch.” Harkness’ gaze slides away, evasive.

“I’ve never seen a watch like that before.” Watson turns Harkness’ arm around, looking at it. Holmes holds his breath, hoping Watson can pry some information out of the man. He’s dying to know what the thing is. It’s starting to become an obsession.

“I’m sure you haven’t. It was specially made. Long time ago,” Harkness says as he pulls his arm away. “Sort of.” He quirks his mouth. “Doesn’t even work anymore. At least, not its main function.”

Holmes pipes up, unable to keep quiet. “Then why do you wear it?”

“It does other things - comes in handy. I’m hoping the friend I’m looking for can fix it.”

Now they’re getting somewhere, Holmes thought, although he has no idea what “other things” Harkness is referring to. He practically salivates at the prospect of finding out.

“Oh, yes?” Watson says. “Your friend. Who is he?”

“Well, he’s a doctor, like you, but hmm, not quite. He’s not a medical doctor, although he does like to...fix things.”

“Like your watch.”

“Possibly. He might be the only one who can fix it, actually.” Harkness’ eyes darken. “He’s the reason I’m here.”

“In London, you mean?” Holmes asks.

“Well, yes, but just here, generally.” Harkness is vague.

Well, that was cryptic. Damn and blast, the man is an enigma.

He simply has to get a better look at that wriststrap, Holmes determines. Clearly, Harkness isn’t going to volunteer any useful information. There’s something going on here – that’s no ordinary watch and everything the man tells them just muddied the waters. Not to mention his unusual ability to heal. Now, how to do it is the problem...

 

“Well, thanks for fixing me up, doc. Although I think I would have been fine.” Harkness pulls on his coat and prepares to leave. Watson has cleaned and bandaged his abrasions and told him to take it easy for a day, although that seems an unlikely prospect given the man’s obvious penchant for self-destruction. Holmes had surreptitiously examined the coat, but come up with nothing conclusive other than its tailor resided in Cardiff and the wool was from Scotland. The few stray bits of hay he found buried in the cloth could mean almost anything.

“Are you certain there’s no one to keep you company for the next twenty-four hours or so?” Watson asks. “You might have a concussion.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can find a willing companion, that’s never a problem.” Harkness leers.

Holmes contemplates inviting him to stay here, his previous imaginings coming to the fore, but that would forestall his current plans. He fully expects that Harkness will return in short order, however.

“No alcohol, now. Or any other mind-altering substance; you need to keep your wits about you.” Watson warns him with a hand on his shoulder as he leads him down the stairs. Was Holmes imagining it, or did Watson’s hand linger longer than necessary?

Harkness snorts. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Watson. I seem to be able to snap back from almost anything. But thank you for your concern.” Holmes had thought that was just hyperbole back at the club, but now he wonders if it’s not true.

At the door, Holmes pulls him into an unexpected embrace, taking a surreptitious sniff before somewhat reluctantly letting him go. “Take care, my good man. London can be a dangerous place. It’s not Cardiff, you know.”

“I’ve been around the block a few times, Mr. Holmes. I can take care of myself.”

“You mean like you did in the boxing match?” Holmes asks, eyebrow raised.

“That was different. I...knew what I was doing, at any rate.” Harkness looks solemn as he turns toward the door. “I should be going now.”

“Well, if there’s anything we can do, if you need help finding your doctor, by all means, let us know.” Holmes says. “I am a consulting detective, after all. The only one that I know of.”

“Consulting detective?” Harkness looks at him with interest.

“Why, yes, didn’t I say?” Holmes raises himself up to his full height.

“No, you didn’t mention it.” Harkness says thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’ll take you up on that. But for now, I’ll leave you and your, er, flatmate in peace. I’ve troubled you enough.”

“Good night, then, sir,” Watson says. “And good luck.”

“Good night,” Harkness says, tipping his hat before sweeping off into the night.

“So.” Holmes says with a grin, leaning back against the closed door. “What do you make of this, my dear Watson?” He pulls Harkness’ wriststrap out of his jacket.

Watson gapes. “What the devil, Holmes? What have you done?”

“Now, now. I’m just borrowing it for scientific purposes. He’ll be back for it shortly, I expect, so we better hurry.” With that, he hauls Watson up the stairs, muttering excitedly - so much to do. He has a game plan all laid out in his mind, he just needs to put it into place, and as quickly as possible, no time to waste.

“That’s all very interesting, Holmes, but what I really want to know was why he had that aroma. Never smelled anything like it before. It made it quite difficult to concentrate on the examination, I must say.”

Holmes smiles to himself. After all, he knows his friend’s mind as well as his own. It’s safe to assume they’re both looking forward to the inevitable return of the handsome Jack Harkness.


End file.
